“It’s worth a try. Come on. The surgery’s open.”
They walked into the surgery. Pat explianed his problem to the receptionist, glad he had taken the precaution of signing on when he’d first arrived in Lochdubh and therefore was saved the business of filling out forms. “After I go in,” he whispered to Jenny, “create a diversion in the waiting room, something to get him running out.”
“I’ll try,” Jenny whispered back.
There were only two elderly patients before Pat was due to be called. Jenny tried to read a romantic story in the People’s Friend. But the print jumped before her nervous eyes.
At last it was Pat’s turn. He breezed in. “Sit down,” said Dr. Brodie. “What’s up with you?”
“It’s my back,” said Pat, his eyes roving over the doctor’s desk.
“That’s unusual,” said Dr. Brodie.
“Why?”
“People usually complain of bad backs on a Monday so they get a week off work.”
“I’m not trying to get off work,” said Pat. “I just want something to ease the pain.”
“Did you do anything to strain it?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Sam wanted me to lift the photocopier to another part of the office. It was heavier than I expected.”
“I should think it’s nothing more than a temporary strain. I’d better examine you just the same. Go behind the screen and strip to the waist.”
Why wasn’t Jenny doing something? wondered Pat.
Then he heard the sound of a heavy fall from the waiting room, and the receptionist came running in, shouting. “Doctor, come quick. There’s a lassie’s fainted.”
Pat peered over the screen. The minute Dr. Brodie was out of the room, he ran round the screen, his eyes scanning the desk. There it was, the book of forms. He quickly tore one off the top and put it in his jacket pocket and then went into the waiting room, where Jenny was being helped into a chair.
“I’m all right,” she was saying. “Just a dizzy turn.”
The doctor saw Pat. “I’d better examine this young lady first. You wait here.”
“Right,” said Pat. “Actually, I’m probably making a fuss about nothing. A couple of painkillers’ll probably put me right.”
Jenny was helped into the consulting room. Pat waited anxiously. She was gone for ages. Jenny had to have a full examination. At the end of it, Dr. Brodie studied her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and said slowly, “I would say you are one remarkably healthy lady. Have these murders made you nervous?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jenny, seizing on the excuse. “I was helping Hamish with his enquiries yesterday and it was all very exciting. I think the horror of it all got to me today.”
“I don’t know what Hamish was thinking of to involve you in two nasty murder cases,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’ll be having a word with him.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” pleaded Jenny. “I wouldn’t want to get him into any trouble.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll be speaking to him. If you get another fainting fit, come and see me. The receptionist will give you the necessary forms to fill in with the name of your London doctor. Send that young man in.”
After examining Pat thoroughly, Dr. Brodie felt he was wasting his time. Both Pat and Jenny seemed to be in perfect health.
After they had gone, he phoned the police station. Hamish was out, so he left him a message and then walked to his home – to find Hamish sitting in his kitchen, drinking coffee.
Hamish listened patiently to Dr. Brodie’s lecture and then said cynically, “Did you check your prescription pad?”
“No, why?”
“A healthy young man like Pat Mallone claims to have a bad back. Then a healthy young woman has a fainting fit, which means you have to run out, leaving Pat alone. Didn’t that make you suspicious?”
“I’d better go back and check.”
“I’ll come with you.”
They walked together to the surgery. Once there, Dr. Brodie checked his prescription pad. “Nothing missing,” he said.
“And everything looks the same?” asked Hamish. “Nothing’s been moved?”
“Not that I can see.”
A doctor’s line to say she was sick, thought Hamish. He opened his mouth to say something and then decided to remain quiet. He had a feeling that such as Jenny might find out something if she stayed, and he was willing to turn a blind eye to a small crime in the hope of solving the bigger ones.
♦
Hamish returned to the police station to find a grey-haired woman waiting outside. “Constable Macbeth?” she asked doubtfully, looking up at Hamish and then down to the peculiar-looking dog at his heels.
“The same. And you are?”
“Mrs. Dinwiddie. Miss Beattie’s sister.”
“Come into the station,” said Hamish.
In the kitchen, she sat down primly on the edge of a chair and crossed her ankles. She wore her grey hair in an old–fashioned bun. Her face looked tight and her mouth was a thin line. Hamish wondered briefly if it had got that way after years of clamping down on emotions. Then he reminded himself that her sister had recently been murdered and she may have just been holding grief at bay.
He made two mugs of tea and then said gently, “How can I help you?”
“I heard about you,” she said, “from Amy, my sister. She always said you were so clever. I’ve had enough of that Detective Blair. I want to know if you are any further forward in finding out who killed Amy.”
“At the moment, no,” said Hamish. “But I will,” he added, with a confidence he did not feel. “Depend on that. Tell me about your sister. Why did she leave home?”
“It happened when I was away at the university in Edinburgh,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie. “She wrote to me and said she couldn’t stand living at home any longer. Our parents were very religious, very strict. It was easier for me because they were proud of me getting to university. Anyway, I wasn’t a rebel like Amy. Amy wanted to wear make-up and go out with the boys, and they kept locking her in her room. Then they would get members of the congregation round to read the Bible to her and lecture her. One day, she just took off. Father said her name was never to be mentioned again.”
“What did she work at before she came up to Braikie?”
“She worked in a supermarket as a checkout girl. Actually, she was pretty bright at school, but fell to pieces just before the final exams. I think Father was harder on her than he ever was on me. I used to worry that she might have a breakdown. I wrote to her about their deaths, but she didn’t bother to come to the funerals.”
“What about boyfriends?”
“She would be allowed those but only if it was some fellow from the church. She was seen out with a bunch of bikers and locked in her room for two weeks after that. I never knew if there was anyone special. She didn’t tell me.”
Perth, thought Hamish. Perhaps the secret lies somewhere in her past.
“Did the police give you her papers? Old photographs? Things like that?” he asked.
“Not yet. They are going to release them to me soon.”
“I would like to see them. You see, Mrs. Dinwiddie, sometimes if I can form a picture of a person and their background, I can get an idea of why they might have been killed.”
“I’ll send them to you.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow, in Perth. I’ve made the arrangements.”
“I would be grateful if you could let me have your address. You live in Perth, don’t you?”
“Yes, here’s the address.” She produced a card from her handbag.
“I might call on you soon.”
“Let me know when. Because if I have any photos or papers that might interest you, I’ll keep them instead of sending them up here.”
Hamish thanked her and saw her out.
He returned to the kitchen and fed Lugs, forgetting in his preoccupation with the case that the animal had already been fed.